Fifty First Kisses

Chapter 1

The thing about a first kiss is that it’s almost always awkward.

You don’t know each other’s moves. Where do you put your hands?

What angle will the other person go for?

Will they lean left? Right? What if you bump heads or noses?

Do your eyes close preemptively or once it’s begun?

What if you’re a gentle kisser and he comes in teeth first?

Unfortunately, I know the answer to that last question.

The signs that a kiss is coming are almost always the same, though.

The lean toward one another. The eye contact that you hold longer than necessary before your gaze drifts down and then back up.

The slight parting of the lips. That half-second pause where everything stops and you know it’s about to happen.

How do I know? I’ve had forty-eight first kisses. That’s how. I could give a full TED Talk on the anatomy of a first kiss. The ins and outs. A study in first-time smooches.

To be clear, forty-eight first kisses doesn’t mean forty-eight dates. I’ve been on far more than that—plenty that never made it anywhere near a kiss because I knew things wouldn’t work out early enough to spare us both. The forty-eight are the ones I actually thought were promising.

Just don’t ask me about a second kiss. Because I’ve never had one of those. Not in all my twenty-nine years.

“I had a great time tonight,” I say, looking up at my date as we stand outside the door of my apartment on a Monday night in July, the warm North Hollywood breeze carrying the scent of cut grass as it teases tendrils of my dark-brown hair that have fallen out of my low bun.

It was the best I could do, having had only ten minutes to get ready before he picked me up.

He being Joshua. My date. The man with the sandy-blond hair and an impeccably tailored button-up shirt and suit pants, who’s taken me on three dates so far and who I’m pretty sure is about to kiss me right now. For the first time. First kiss number forty-nine.

“I did too,” he says, his eyes penetrating mine. And yep, they just moved down to my lips and then back up again. All signs are pointing to go.

I hike my purse up onto my shoulder, the strap catching on the cap sleeve of my favorite little black dress, where hopefully it will stay put. This is another one of those awkward things. No one tells you what to do with your purse in times like these.

He takes a small step forward, a hand going to my hip, and I feel the sudden warmth of his hand through the thin fabric.

Nice moves, Joshua. He knows what he wants.

I like that. I like him. He’s just what I’ve been looking for: practical, but charming.

Intelligent, but not condescending. Successful, but not braggy.

Funny, but . . . well, he’s actually not all that funny.

Most of my laughs during dinner were of the courtesy variety.

Which is fine, because Joshua can’t have it all.

His head dips toward mine, our faces mere inches from each other now. I can smell the spicy cologne he wears. Hints of bergamot and leather. There’s also a hint of garlic on his breath from dinner. Would it have killed him to take the mint I’d offered in the car?

Okay, focus, Claire. It’s time to kiss Joshua P.

Waters, lawyer extraordinaire. I learned all about his career on our first date, where he regaled me with the story about how he made partner in six years.

The first one in his firm to do it that quickly.

So maybe he’s successful and a little boastful. No one’s perfect.

I lean in, shifting my weight from one black heel to the other, looking up, a soft smile on my face. One that says Let’s do this.

He takes a quick breath, his green eyes searching my blue ones like he might find an answer there.

“Can I kiss you, Claire?” he finally asks.

I won’t lie: I miss the old days when a guy would just lay one on you. Heart pounding, breaths mingling, tensions rising. Those fiery but not-quite-expected kisses that make your toes curl, your spine tingle, your skin burn.

I agree that consent is important. All parties should be in agreement about what is going to happen. But also, it’s kind of obvious what’s happening here. No TED Talk necessary.

Keep your eyes on the prize, Claire. You’re about to be kissed.

I nod only once, and that’s all the confirmation Joshua needs. His hand moves from my hip to my back as he pulls me toward him, his other hand moving up to my face, his fingers lightly cradling my jaw. I wrap both arms around his strong waist, feeling muscles bunch underneath his linen shirt.

This is happening. Here we go. The kiss is about to commence. Lucky number forty-nine.

Please be lucky.

His lips part; his mouth inches toward mine. He drags the moment out in a lovely, almost torturous way before he finally closes the gap between us.

It’s go time.

Okay, this is good. This is very good. Joshua and I are kissing. And it’s . . . well, good. Tender, delicate, and thoughtful. He’s taking his time, not moving too fast. There are no teeth involved, thank goodness. Not bad. Not bad at all.

We play this back-and-forth dance for a bit, lovely and light, before I angle my head ever so slightly to the side. He takes the hint, deepening the kiss, moving us from unhurried and sweet to something hungrier, more insistent. The hand at my cheek moves to my upper back, pulling me even closer.

I think we’re really vibing here. This is some high-level kissing. And it’s happening. We’re actually doing it. I think this could be it. This could really be—

As if he can hear my thoughts, Joshua goes still in my arms, his lips no longer moving over mine. Just still pressed there like a statue, like he’s completely forgotten what he’s doing.

Well, crap.

He pulls his lips away, his head moving back as he looks at me, his brow pinching together just above his nose.

“Claire?” he asks, looking at me as if he’s not sure what just happened.

“Yes?” I say, giving him what I’m hoping is an encouraging smile. One that says We were kissing, remember? Please remember.

He shakes his head, as if he’s coming out of a fog, and takes a step back, releasing me from his hold. I let go too because what will come next is inevitable and, honestly, expected. Despite all my wishing and manifesting.

“I . . . I think I need to go,” he says, pointing toward his car. A very expensive Mercedes that he told me all about on the way here. As if I know anything about cars.

“Sure,” I say, my lips pulled flat.

I could call after him, ask him why he’s leaving so quickly. Maybe he has a sudden case of diarrhea? Maybe he realized he left something cooking on the stove? But there’s no point. I know how this goes. I’ve done it forty-eight times before.

Joshua, it seems, has completely forgotten why we were kissing in the first place. All attraction—poof—gone.

After going through this forty-eight times, you’d think it wouldn’t sting anymore. But it does. Less, for sure, but it’s still there. Like a pesky mosquito buzzing in your ear. Buzzzzzzzzzzz.

But this is how things go for me, and for the women in my family, or so I’ve been told my entire life.

Now that we’ve had the kiss that wasn’t, I can stop deluding myself into thinking Joshua was the right one for me and that he could break this stupid kiss curse.

The signs were there. Also, his bragging and garlic breath were all a little too much.

Even if there had been a second kiss, it probably wouldn’t have lasted much beyond that.

I grab my purse from my shoulder and fumble around inside it until I find my keys. Air-conditioning escapes through the door as I open it and wraps around me like a frigid hug.

“Sam?” I call out, hoping she isn’t home so I can wallow by myself, while simultaneously wishing she’d be here so I can vent to her. Sam is always a good sounding board.

“In here,” she calls from the living room.

I walk down the small hallway, toward her voice, my black heels making clicking sounds on the tile floor.

“How did it go?” my roommate of the past four years asks as I enter our smallish apartment. It’s cozy, and we’ve made it work since Sam’s acting career hasn’t exactly taken off yet, and I could never afford this place myself with my good-but-not-LA-good salary working in public relations.

It’s in a renovated older building in NoHo with great bones but thin walls.

Which isn’t a problem until you’re playing music late at night and your neighbors get annoyed and bang on the wall.

Ask me how I know. The kitchen and rooms are small, but the exposed brick wall in the living room is my favorite feature, along with the green velvet couch we found secondhand.

It’s a little big for the space, but we’ve made it work.

That’s where I find Sam, sprawled out, her dark hair pulled up in a top knot, without a stitch of makeup on her flawless, gold-toned skin, a throw over her legs, a Costco-size container of licorice at her feet, and a muted Friends rerun playing on the TV.

“How was date number three?” she asks, a hopeful smile on her face, which quickly drops when she sees my expression.

“Well, I can safely say there won’t be a date number four.”

“Oh no,” she says, her shoulders dropping.

“Oh yes,” I say, giving her my best grimace.

She reaches up and pats the top of the couch, telling me without words to have a seat and spill my guts to my best friend in the world.

I sigh and then squeeze between the wall and the couch, making my way into the living room the way I usually have to—sideways, because the day we found the sofa, we were so in love that neither of us thought to measure whether it would fit.

And it does, but only barely—the velvet arms nearly flush with both walls, leaving just enough room on one side to squeeze through.

I sometimes jump over the back because it’s faster and easier, but this dress wouldn’t allow for that.